The pleasure mounted immediately. It was a hot, spiky tingle behind my pussy, spreading across my hips slowly, smoothly, like an oil slick inside my writhing body. I felt my mouth snap open, wide and wild, screeching her name. "Fuck!"
"That's the idea." Her voice came to me, sibilant and vaguely ominous; goddamn, she was happy with herself! "That's what I'm doing, you dumb bitch, I'm fucking you." She had her fingers splayed across my pussy, owning it, using it as she wanted: two fingers in, her thumb brutal on my clit.
I reached blindly down and gripped her wrist, pushing, fighting her; there was no way I could take more of this. I was totally overstimulated. She felt me trying to wrench her hand out of my pussy and laughed, her voice cruel in my ear. I could feel her spit strike my face. "No way, Rachel." She laughed, trilling and giddy, then dragged my face toward hers so that she could take my mouth again, kissing me helplessly, her lips hungry. "I told you: you're not in charge."
My legs were beating the air over my bed. Where was Mike? And when had she come into the room? She lived in Seattle; why was she even in my house? And why was I coming on her fingers?
But my mind would not go there, its logic gone, enslaved to her prodding fingers and the orgasm they were pulling out of my sweating body with such assurance, such skill. And just as the pleasure peaked, cresting like the waves marching ashore on a bad morning at Marconi Beach, it sharpened still further. "Oh my god!" I wailed, heaving.
She'd caught my breast in her mouth, no, her
teeth
, her fucking
